


And They Are Not

by Jenwryn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Future Fic, Life Affirming Sex, Plot What Plot, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They barely make it through the door, before Irene has her up against the wallpaper.</p><p>(Set some time after the third episode. The plot is of the blink-and-you'll-miss-it variety, but there actually <em>is</em> one there. Kinda.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And They Are Not

**Author's Note:**

> I had the urge to write some pwp, and I suppose it felt like it was about time I saw some more Sherlock girls up against the proverbial hallway wallpaper, rather than 'just' the boys. As much as I love the boys. And as much as I have no idea where the hell Irene appeared from. (Though I'm thinking I was influenced by the gift!fic, which was written for me, [over at the Holmestice exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/holmestice/29348.html). I'll update the details of that more exactly, when I know who the author was. ♥)
> 
> Also. Am posting this about five minutes before going to bed, which is always a Highly Unwise Move, and I'll probably look back at it, in the morning, and find a gazillion glaring errors, and be generally appalled. I'll deal with that in the morning, I guess.

They barely make it through the door, before Irene has her up against the wallpaper. Molly leans into it, into her, is already losing her desire to speak; has already discarded her common sense, along with her coat – but _not_ along with the carefully policed evidence, seeing as that had been dealt with the moment the deed was done – in the flash car, parked crookedly before her apartment building. Oh, they've been moving towards this for ages, Molly thinks; inexorably pushed in this direction, in the same way that she pushes her hands to Irene's shoulders and urges the woman closer. Sherlock had brought them here. Jim had brought them here. London had brought them here, with her warground chaos.

Irene's hair feels good against Molly's fingers; feels soft and warm and right. Molly finds she doesn't much care what she herself looks like, not any more, not as their mouths crash closer – the hint of pizza, of wine, of gunpowder, of the cold crush of night air beyond her front door.

Everything has brought them here.

They've been working together for months; Molly roped in by the Powers That Be, as though she knew a single thing about Jim at all. As though she'd done more than cook rice fry-ups, and watch tv with him. As though she'd done more than giggle nervously, and give him a toothbrush of his own.

Lestrade – who knew nothing, and absolutely everything, and most particularly the fine art of turning a blind eye for the sake of a positive result – had suggested that Irene would be good for Molly. Sherlock, in that strange, almost subdued way he'd adopted, since that night at the pool, had studied them for a second, glanced sideways at John, and actually agreed.

But that was months ago. That was _worlds_ ago.

Irene's hair is real against Molly's fingers. Molly slides her hands into it, through it, amongst it, as though she can tether herself in the most literal of ways.

Irene says, "hey," and dips into a grin.

Molly says "hey," too; moves warmly, as Irene takes hold of Molly's hips, turns her, slides her palms down Molly's sides, and presses her face to the back of Molly's neck.

The hall is wound with shadows, curving at umbrellas and stubborn against corners. Molly breathes in the dry and the pale of the wallpaper, as she stretches herself over the cupboard where she keeps her shoes – the cupboard, where she keeps her shoes; and Molly can hear the heels and buckles shift within it, as she pushes against it, as she bends her body closer to it, as she leans back into the heat of Irene's lips at her neck, and Irene's fingers beneath her skirt. Irene's fingers, pushing aside Molly's knickers, slipping through Molly's curls, darting back and feathering forwards, to touch at soft skin like a whisper; to dip into the place that makes Molly contract and sigh and shiver. "Oh," Molly says, and "eh", and silly noises into the wallpaper, as she moves her hips more; as she presses back onto the fingers that fuck her, fuck her marvellously and rightly, damp sucking sounds on her skin in two places as Irene mouths at Molly's shoulder; mouths and nips as Molly presses her hands against the wall and pushes tighter, harder, closer; as Molly's eyes snap open and she stares at the pattern before her, at the blur of blushing pinks. Molly cries out, a gasp that breeds with a whine – desire and need and ache and heat flushing together in Molly's mouth, and making her hunger for air, and for the closer press of Irene's breasts against the back of Molly's shirt.

They're not dead. They're here, and the world has conspired against them, has conspired with them, has played its hand, and somehow they're not dead. They're not dead, and Sherlock isn't dead, and John isn't dead, and Lestrade isn't dead, and London isn't dead, and, when Molly can feel her knees again – when Molly can peel her hips away from the shoe cupboard – she's going to take Irene Adler to the sofa, slide along her body, and let her tongue taste places her tongue has never known, oh-so-slowly; but, for now, for now, just the press of Irene against Molly's back, of Irene's mouth against Molly's ear, of Irene's hand against Molly's thigh, wet and warm – for now, it's enough. It's real.

Irene trails her hands upwards, and squeezes Molly's nipples through cotton; gentle and cruel and marvellous.

Molly slides her own hands backwards, between their bodies, between Irene's legs.

Moriarty is dead, and they are not.


End file.
